I Come With Knives
by LeontinaBowie
Summary: In a world run by Voldemort, Harry tries to get by as an unnoticed half-blood until he discovers a strange diadem which sends him into a coma for over a year. He finally awakens and is made to return to Hogwarts to complete his seventh-year that he missed, and it is there that he meets the new Dark Arts teacher, Professor Riddle.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story is going to be my NanoWrimo so expect fast updates throughout November :D This story will get Dark because Voldemort is a ruthless and established leader, but nothing is going to get too graphic and I'll warn of anything coming up in chapters that might be upsetting_

Harry's breath came out in sharp pants, his legs burning as he ran down the halls of Hogwarts. He stopped for a moment to try and catch his breath, pressing his hand against his side to fight the stitch that had flared up. He forced himself to start running again when he heard footsteps approaching rapidly, ignoring the protests of his body.

Harry knew he shouldn't have been out of bed in the first place, but he'd wanted to go to the Restricted Section and no teacher would give a half-blood a note to access it with permission. He'd underestimated the Carrow's security measures, though, and as soon as he stepped too close to the gate to the Restricted Section an alarm began blaring.

Thankfully Harry had managed to jump back in time before ropes had emerged from the ground, trying to wrap themselves around his ankles, but he knew the Carrows wouldn't rest until he was caught. They took their duties as night security very seriously, perhaps because they took sadistic glee in punishing students. They favoured the Cruciatus Curse, and Harry really wasn't in the mood to writhe around in pain tonight.

Making it back to his dormitory was his only option, but it seemed to be a slowly dwindling option. The way the Carrows were chasing him pushed him further away from his dorm room. He'd made it to the seventh floor, at least, but he was the wrong end of it.

All he needed was somewhere to hide, somewhere the Carrows wouldn't think to look. Harry had to somehow lose himself in the castle, or else he would face the wrath of the Cruciatus reigning pain over him.

He stopped dead in his tracks, almost stumbling over his own feet as a small door appeared silently on the wall in front of him. He'd certainly never seen the door before; there weren't even classrooms in this part of the castle.

Figuring he had nothing left to lose, and with the footsteps chasing him getting closer and closer, Harry yanked the door open and fled inside. He fell against the door as it closed behind him, gripping the handle tightly with his hand and pressing his forehead against the cool wood.

The footsteps ran straight past, not even hesitating as they went by the new and unusual door; Harry let out a sigh of relief. He turned around, figuring he'd give the Carrows time to get to another part of the castle before he emerged again.

The room was massive yet at the same time appeared cramped and tiny, likely because of the massive stacks of items that went from floor to ceiling. Only magic was stopping them toppling over, because they didn't look at all sturdy. In the tower closest to Harry he could see old books, bottles of wine, broomsticks, and a battered old wardrobe.

Harry had always been overly curious, and it often got him in trouble—it was why he was in this particular predicament in the first place— but he really wanted to see what was in the room. He'd been at Hogwarts for six years now and he'd never seen the room before, or heard anyone else mention it. It could just be a scrap room that wasn't worth mentioning, but Harry was still intrigued.

Nothing particularly caught his eye, however, and he was about to turn back when his gaze landed on a glimmer of silver.

It was a diadem, pure silver with a vibrant blue jewel engraved in the centre, and another hanging below it. _Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure_ was scrawled on the front of it. Harry vaguely recalled his father telling him that out of the old Hogwarts Houses, Ravenclaw was the one that valued wisdom and learning, and he wondered if it belonged to the House before Voldemort abolished it along with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

His fingers grazed the metal before he hastily pulled them back, jerking at the magic he felt pulsing through the diadem. As the surprise died, he cautiously moved his hand back, carefully picking up the jewellery. It was a beautiful thing, and the feel of the magic flowing through it was almost intoxicating.

Somewhere, Harry could hear voices, but they didn't concern him. They were soft, and distant, as though they were far, far away. The voices wanted the diadem, Harry knew, but he didn't want to give it to them.

He raised the diadem above his head, sliding it across the top of his hair. The voices were getting louder—inaudible, but louder—but the diadem was his now. The diadem was his.

A woman screamed, no longer away from Harry but inside his head, piercing his ears as she screamed and screamed and _screamed_. His hands flew to the diadem to tear it off his head but it was red hot against his fingers, making it impossible to remove. He settled for covering his ears and shutting his eyes, but the woman continued to scream, and Harry was sure his head was going to implode.

The diadem vibrated violently on top of Harry's head, making his body jerk and shake as foreign magic splintered through him. It was his turn to scream as a surge of magic flowed through him, so powerful it knocked him off his feet. Harry's fingers burned as he tried to tear the diadem off his head again, his throat aching from how much he was screaming, and then, all of a sudden, everything stopped.

And Harry's world fell black.

* * *

Harry's eyes twitched, but he didn't open them, content as he was in the darkness.

He was loosely aware of the silence he was accustomed to being broken by short beeps, one after the other. He began to hear tapping too; footsteps, not near him but close enough that he could hear the hustle and bustle of the world working while he stayed safe in the darkness.

His fingers twitched, pain jolting through them at the motion. And suddenly he was aware of his body lying on a soft surface—he'd been so sure he was floating—and with awareness of his body came awareness of pain. It wasn't sharp, burning pain, but a dull ache that seemed to reach every inch of his skin.

"Harry," a soft voice murmured somewhere high above him. "Wake now, Harry."

Harry flinched when a cold finger touched his cheek.

"Harry," the voice said again, sharper and right next to him. "Wake!"

Harry's eyes flew open, and he blinked rapidly as light hit him with a burning discomfort. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing heavily before carefully opening them again, gasping as a face appeared right in the line of his vision. It was a strange, waxen face that didn't quite look real, unnaturally white like it was carved from snow. The face had blood red eyes, slits like a snake for a nose, and thin, barely there white lips which opened to reveal sharp, pointed teeth.

Lord Voldemort.

"Wha-?" Harry started to say, but his throat clenched as he spoke and he broke off into a hacking cough, sitting forwards and hunching over as his whole chest ached with the force of it.

When he'd finished a strong hand pushed him backwards, allowing Voldemort to loom over Harry once more.

"You must rest, Harry," Voldemort said tenderly, as though he wasn't a monstrous Dark Lord who ruled the Wizarding World with violence and terror. "You've been through quite the ordeal."

"I…" Harry murmured, brow furrowing as he thought back to the last thing he remember. "A diadem! I wore it...cursed?"

"You're fortunate the Carrows discovered you when they did," Voldemort stated. "You gave them such a fright, screaming like that; they thought Rebels had broken into the castle and were torturing you. But no, it was just you being a foolish _child_." Voldemort spat the last word with venom, but his cruel tone seemed to be the only thing so far to Harry that felt real. "You really must be more careful, Harry; we don't want you losing any of that precious blood."

Voldemort retreated from his invasion of Harry's personal space, and Harry felt a pressure both physical and emotional leave him as he was given room to breathe.

He left without another word, not even sparing Harry a second glance as he moved so elegantly he could have almost been gliding.

Harry frowned, fingers prodding at his temples as he felt a headache coming on. As he rubbed his aching forehead he felt a strange line where the skin felt smoother than the rest. He drew his hand away, finally looking at the room around him which was stark white; white walls, white furniture, white light. It was clearly a hospital, but definitely not the wing at Hogwarts which Harry knew intimately well.

He didn't know what to feel, confusion clouding all of his other senses. Voldemort was supposed to be terrifying but Harry had been too bewildered to notice anything but the strangeness of the situation.

He glanced towards the door as urgent footsteps hurried towards it, and then it flew open, slamming into the wall beside it with a crash. Harry just had time to glimpse the hopeful but tired look on his father's face before he found himself wrapped in a firm embrace, the spicy scent of his father's cologne filling his senses and making him choke again.

"Oh, Harry," James babbled, pulling back but gripping Harry's shoulders tightly. "Thank Merlin you're awake! I couldn't believe it when he said, but you're here! You're here!"

"Come now, Mr Potter," a man in bright green robes—a Healer—ushered, pulling James away from the bed. "We must give your son his space; he's been through quite the ordeal. How do you feel, Harry?"

"Er," Harry muttered, flinching when the Healer began prodding him with his wand and performing various spells that tingled uncomfortably. "Sore. And confused. What's going on? I-"

"You've been in a coma," James croaked, standing by his wife, and Harry's step-mother, Margot. Margot appeared entirely uninterested in what the Healer was doing, though she did manage to give Harry a strained smile of support.

"A coma?" Harry repeated, trying to ignore the Healer jostling him as he worked.

"For over a year," James reiterated, and Harry could only stare at him.

A whole year he'd been unconscious? Had he really missed an entire year of his life? The concept seemed impossible to Harry, but at the same time seemed to make everything strange around him fall into place.

"Your professor, Amycus Carrow brought you in," the Healer added. "Said he'd found you screaming with a cursed object on your head, but you collapsed before he could get it off you. He brought you straight here but whatever magic was in that tiara did something to you that we simply couldn't figure out. We were ready to give up when the Dark Lord very graciously offered his knowledge of Dark curses to assist us; you owe him your life."

"He...what?" Harry asked, tilting his head in confusion.

The curse and the coma rang true, but Voldemort helping him?

"Magical blood is very valuable," the Healer said, parroting the propaganda posters that Voldemort's followers strung everywhere. "A half-blood you may be, but magic runs through your veins which makes you deserving of assistance."

"And we are very grateful for that," James stated, voice strained. "Long may the Dark Lord reign."

"Long may he reign," Margot and the Healer responded, crossing an arm over their chest and tapping above their heart twice.

Harry didn't join in. He may have been unconscious for over a year, but all he wanted to do was sleep. Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes again he might wake up and discover this whole thing had simply been a nightmare.

* * *

It wasn't a nightmare.

The scar shaped like lightning on Harry's forehead was proof enough of that. He scrubbed at it hard enough to leave his skin an angry shade of red, but the mark of the curse magic remained.

He supposed that though him being in a coma had been hell for his family, it had made his own life a lot less stressful. Since he'd woken up Harry had found himself feeling melancholy most days, and like he didn't fit into his own life anymore.

The Ministry had sent him a letter stating that he had to go back to Hogwarts to complete his seventh year on account of him missing the entirety of it. Harry didn't see the point of going back, because the only jobs he'd be able to get regardless were low-level, half-blood approved menial roles that he certainly didn't need NEWTs for.

But rules were rules, and though James would have helped Harry find a loophole, Margot made it very clear that she wasn't going to risk her freedom just so Harry could skip school. Harry didn't have the energy to fight her on it, so he'd resigned himself to returning to school and joining a different year group where he barely knew anyone except his step-sister, Valentina.

He stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand—his skin always felt cold nowadays, and he flinched as his icy fingertips brushed his cheek. He hadn't been sleeping well since returning home either. His dreams were haunted by the same vision every night; of a strange woman with blurred features running through a dark forest, so black he could barely make out the trees around her. He could hear whispering too, so low he couldn't understand the words, and sometimes when he woke it sounded like there was somebody by his bed, hissing into his ear.

He jumped when a knock sounded at his door, startling him out of his moping.

Margot opened the door without even waiting for an answer, scowling at him as she stepped into his room.

"I've been calling you; don't you listen?" Margot folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him icily.

There was no motherly feelings from Margot towards Harry. She was a widow, and when Voldemort announced that all witches and wizards of age had to marry—and those without partners would be matched up—she was forced to marry Harry's father. They made their marriage work simply because they had no other choice, even having two children together—Lennox, who was now nine, and Cordelia, who was six—like they were required, but while James made an effort to be a father to Valentina, Margot made no such attempt with Harry.

It didn't bother Harry though; his own mother loved him enough, even if he barely got to see her.

"I couldn't hear you," Harry told Margot blankly, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I'd have come down if I had."

"Don't cheek me," Margot snapped. "And get your coat on; your father's waiting for you over at Sirius's. He's taking you to see…her today. The Dark Lord allowed her an extra visiting day on account of you missing the last one."

Harry's heart jumped hopefully in his chest, cancelling out the anger he felt towards Margot whenever she referred to Harry's mother with such utter contempt and disgust.

"I'm allowed to go see Mum?" he asked eagerly, smiling for the first time since he'd awoken without having to force it. "Do me a favour, Margot, and try shouting louder next time."

The compound where Muggle-borns lived was a plain, non-descript building with four bare, grey walls with just a single metal door breaking through the colour. It was surrounded by a large wire fence, with thick spikes bunched together across the top and the bottom, and cursed to cause intense pain to anyone who passed through it if they carried the 'Mudblood Signifying Mark.'

Voldemort's propaganda campaign could dress it up as a compound however they liked, but it was nothing less than a maximum security prison—even Azkaban had better conditions now that the Dementors had left to guard the outside of the fence surrounding the Muggle-born compound.

Muggle-borns—a now archaic term as most people referred to them as Mudbloods, though Harry refused to do so—were accused of being Muggles who had stolen magic. Voldemort oh so gracefully permitted them to stay in the Wizarding World alive, but their Muggle family were Obliviated—read, killed—and they themselves were forced in live in a compound which was claimed to be absolutely imperative in keeping deserving witches and wizards safe.

It was all a load of bullshit, in Harry's opinion. But people who expressed that point of view were deemed blood-traitors and imprisoned, although the punishment wasn't as bad as it was for Muggle-borns who attempted to escape or rebel against Voldemort's orders, because they were publically executed.

Muggle-borns like Lily who had married a half-blood or pureblood before Voldemort's reign were permitted to have a visit from their ex-spouse and children twice a year, once at Christmas and once for a single family member's birthday. James had chosen Harry's birthday, and Harry cherished all of the visits he got to see his mother.

As they walked into the visiting room, Harry found his eyes drawn immediately to the familiar shock of red hair. He ran forwards, falling into his mother's arms and burying his face against her hair. Lily held him so tightly it hurt but he didn't pull back, not until a guard barked at them to separate.

"Oh, Harry, my sweet boy," Lily said, holding onto his arms as she looked him up and down. She gave him a watery smile, her vivid green eyes glistening. "I'm so glad you're alright now."

Harry nodded as he choked up, not daring himself to speak in case it made all his tightly wound up emotions come spilling forth. No matter what was going wrong in his life, he'd never burden his mother with it, not while she was living as a prisoner for nothing other than her blood type.

He glanced past her, smiling at his half-siblings, Holly, Joseph, Oliver, Lacey, and Matthew, and his step-father, Dirk Cresswell. Though he and Dirk didn't see each other very often, Dirk still made an effort to be kind to Harry and assured him they were family, even if they were a family forced into creation by Voldemort.

Their children were deemed half-bloods as they were born with natural magic rather than 'stealing' it like their parents. Lily and Dirk's children were still all under nine, while the eldest children born inside the compound would soon be turning seventeen, and nobody knew what was going to happen to them once they turned of age. Some Muggle-borns had been taken from the compound after they turned seventeen, though nobody knew what happened to them, and many parents feared their children would be taken from them. There had been a point when the pregnancy rates in the compound began dropping because of that fear, but that only served to anger the Ministry—Lily refused to tell Harry what the Ministry did to combat it, but he knew that Lily would never have wished to have so many children of hers born in captivity.

"How are you feeling, love?" Lily asked after everyone had hugged and settled at the bolted-down table. "Are you in pain? Are you sleeping well?"

Her gaze flickered to Harry's scar, and she frowned at the curse mark.

"I'm fine," Harry lied, giving her a reassuring smile. "The most annoying part is that I have to go back to Hogwarts with a younger year group."

Lily pursed her lips. "An education is important, I suppose. And Valentina will be with you, at least."

"Yeah, she'll gladly welcome her freak brother into her group of friends," Harry muttered before he could stop himself.

James flinched slightly beside him, his hand flying down to Harry's knee to squeeze it comfortingly. Lily's frown deepened.

"Harry-" she said sadly, but Harry cut her off.

"It's fine," he murmured, shaking his head. "Kids gossip all the time; it's how boarding school works. I'll be fine, I know. Hey, Matthew, I hear you can count all the way to twenty now."

The three-year-old nodded, beaming proudly as began reciting his counting abilities to Harry. Dirk's lips quirked, and Lily fixed Harry with a pointed look, but he just smiled back at them innocently.

He wasn't going to waste his limited time with his mother by moping about his life. Instead he watched his youngest brother fondly, the boy still too young to be aware of the terrible world he lived in.

Harry would be lying if he said he didn't envy him.

* * *

Harry had a strained relationship with his step-sister.

Valentina was only a couple of months younger than him—though the school cut-off point meant she was in the year below him academically—so growing up they'd been very close. Margot hadn't approved, of course, telling Valentina that she was a pureblood and a daughter of the great, deceased Horatio Burke, while Harry was the lowly, half-blood son of a Mudblood, but as children blood purity hadn't mattered to them.

As they'd grown older, however, Harry went to Hogwarts first and Valentina joined the year after and made her own friends in a place where the importance of blood purity was drilled into them over and over.

Not only was Valentina a pureblood, but she had a delicate beauty to her, with golden-brown ringlets that fell to her shoulders, and big brown eyes set in a heart shaped face. Her blood, her looks, and her family's money made her popular with students and teachers alike, whereas Harry was considered nothing but a rebellious trouble-maker of low social standing and whose only friend, Seamus Finnigan, was also deemed unworthy of attention.

The distinct differences in their lives had pulled them apart, and though he still cared for Valentina they hadn't been close for years. It was only because of guilt, Harry suspected, that Valentina allowed him to sit with her and her friends in their compartment on the Hogwart's Express.

Her friends didn't make an effort to include Harry in their conversations, but Harry didn't think he was missing out in not being able to share his thoughts on which Death Eater bachelor was the most handsome.

The train finally made its stop at Hogsmeade, and though Harry couldn't say he loved spending time at Hogwarts he was grateful just to get out of the compartment. He made an effort to lose himself in the crowd of students flocking to the carriages, managing to find a space in one with a group of third-year half-bloods who seemed too intimidated by him to utter a single word between them.

Harry wasn't sure if that made him feel miserable or amused him, and he settled on a strange combination of the two.

As the tall castle came into view, Harry felt an unpleasant tug at his stomach, nausea building inside him. It was back to being looked down on and harassed by pureblood students, punished by professors for doing anything that they decided was out of line, and made to study for meaningless exams which wouldn't grant him a higher career than menial Ministry work. And now he didn't have Seamus there to cheer him up with jokes and Firewhiskey.

The third-years all but jumped out of the carriage when it ground to a halt, and Harry was left to clamber out at his leisure. Dread continued to gnaw at him, and he'd barely taken ten steps into the castle when a strong hand wrapped around his upper arm.

"Potter," one of the masked Death Eaters on guard snapped, dragging him forcefully away from the crowd of students. "The headmaster has requested your presence."

Harry swallowed heavily, forcing his body to relax as the Death Eater pulled him along, uncaring if Harry was willing or not.

The headmaster, Rabastan Lestrange, was—to put it lightly—a sadist. He, along with his brother and sister-in-law, were Voldemort's most loyal and dedicated followers, and struck almost as much fear into the hearts of the public as the Dark Lord himself. Rabastan ran Hogwarts with a violent regime simply because he could, not seeing need to hide his delight when he inflicted pain upon the students.

Harry was one of Rabastan's favourite students to torture. It was partly because Harry found himself in trouble a lot—he struggled to keep his mouth shut sometimes—but Rabastan had made no secret of the fact that he thought Harry was 'pretty when he screamed'. Of course that statement had led to Harry making great effort not to scream, but Rabastan only took that as a challenge.

The Death Eater led Harry up the stairs to the headmaster's office, opening the door and proceeding to bow lowly, so low his face was almost touching the floor. Harry grimaced in distaste at the display and stepped around him, realising at once why the Death Eater was bowing.

"Hello, Harry," Voldemort said, raising a wine glass in greeting. "Leave us, Nott."

"You dare not to show any sign of respect?" Bellatrix Lestrange growled from her position next to her master. "You little brat! I-"

"It's alright, Bella," Voldemort cut in soothingly, giving her an affectionate smile. "Harry has difficulties, shall we say?"

Difficulties in what, Harry wasn't sure.

Headmaster Lestrange was sat behind his desk while his brother leaned in front of it, both of them nearly identical with their long, flowing red hair and vibrant blue eyes. Rodolphus had a scar across his right eye, and more lines of age on his face, but apart from that they could pass for twins despite being several years apart.

Voldemort and Bellatrix stood to the side of the desk, and close to them was another man who Harry had never seen before.

The man looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties, with dark brown hair which curled around his ears, and had curiously coloured eyes—one was vibrant green, while the other was a shade of brown so bright it could have almost passed as red.

He was lean and tall, almost as tall as Voldemort himself, and had cheekbones so sharp they could slice through metal. The man was classically handsome, and held himself as though he knew it—the tug in Harry's stomach as he looked at him was the opposite of the dread he'd felt earlier.

"I just wanted to ensure you made it back to school safely," Voldemort continued, oblivious or simply uncaring of Harry's momentary disinterest in him. "And to stress that it is advisable you make an effort to stay out of trouble this year. If anything happens to you again, you may not be so lucky."

Harry nodded, confusion washing over him at the Dark Lord's pleasantries. Voldemort was supposed to be terrifying and intimidating, but both times Harry had met him he'd carried implied cruelty in his voice but had otherwise been calm and non-threatening.

"I shall leave you in the capable hands of Headmaster Lestrange and Professor Riddle," Voldemort stated, eyes raking over Harry's form hungrily, for the first time making Harry squirm. "Come, Bella, Rodolphus."

At least Harry had a name for the mystery man now. _Riddle_. It suited the man, Harry thought; he appeared to be an enigma in more than just name.

"Professor Riddle is our new Dark Arts teacher," Rabastan stated, gesturing at the man in question.

Harry glanced at Riddle, breath catching in his throat as he found those strange eyes fixated intently on him.

"It is very nice to meet you, Harry," Riddle drawled, offering his hand out. His voice was silky smooth, hypnotising almost, and Harry found himself staring, transfixed.

Riddle smirked at Harry's shock, thrusting his hand into Harry's and gripping it in a bruising hold.

"I've heard some interesting tales about you," Riddle said, smirk growing. Something about him seemed familiar to Harry, but at the same time he was something completely unknown.

"All bad, I assume," Harry said before he could help himself. He tried to pull his hand out of the tight hold, but it only prompted Riddle to grip him harder.

"Naturally," Riddle said, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth in a twisted smile. "Headmaster Lestrange says you can be quite a challenge, but there's nothing I like more than beating a challenge. I think we'll be in for an interesting time together."


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's new dorm mates weren't particularly fond of him. Eli Goldstein, Tate Brocklehurst, and Caiden Wright were all half-bloods so they lacked the cruelty and sense of superiority that most purebloods had, but he'd heard them sharing whispered complaints of having to share a dorm room with 'the cursed boy'. They'd barely uttered a word to him since he'd joined their room, and had seemed content keeping as much distance from his as possible.

Harry couldn't even be angry, because it wasn't just them giving him a wide berth. Throughout the welcoming dinner the previous night he had felt eyes on him, and hushed words followed him as he passed people by. He knew—or perhaps hoped—that something serious would happen to somebody else and they would become the talk of the school. Those thoughts were always followed by guilt, because generally when something serious happened to one of the students it was because they were a half-blood who'd angered the wrong pureblood.

Until something eventually happened, however, Harry was the odd thing that the other students stared at and gossiped about as though he wasn't right in front of them. It didn't upset him, but rather he found it quite irritating and off-putting. He'd barely eaten five spoonfuls of his porridge before he grew weary of the pointing, and as his breakfast felt like tasteless mush in his mouth, he chose to forego breakfast altogether and head to his first class early.

The first lesson of the day was Dark Arts, Harry's worst class. He was good enough at the theory portion of the class, but he refused to take part in the practical side because even though it resulted in punishment for him, he couldn't bring himself to cast a harmful spell against an innocent human being. Being half-blood was crime enough to be tortured by other students though, apparently, and Harry's refusal to partake meant he received a failing grade no matter how excellently he could write about the different torture techniques.

Harry did wonder what had happened to Professor Travers, their previous Dark Art teacher. He, like all of the other professors, was a loyal Death Eater with a passion for violence. Traver's particular interests lay in experimentation, and Harry had always suspected he was somehow involved in the horrors of the Department of Mysteries.

He wasn't going to miss Travers by any means, but at least Harry knew what to expect from him. Riddle was a complete mystery, though given his good looks and relatively young age, Harry reasoned he must have done something very impressive in the Dark Lord's eyes to land him a role at Hogwarts.

Naturally, Harry was the first one to arrive at Dark Arts. He leaned against the stone wall, the cold, sharp points pressing into his back, and had just dropped his bag to the floor when the door opened and Riddle appeared. His unusual, different coloured eyes jumped out at Harry immediately, their strangeness as attractive as they were unnerving.

"Hello, Harry," Riddle said smoothly. "Please, come inside."

Harry hesitated; though Riddle had given him very little concrete evidence that he was a sadist, it never boded well for Harry when he was left alone with professors. However, he realised they were alone together in the corridor regardless, and if Harry refused him then Riddle would have an excuse to punish him if he wished—not that it was unheard of for the professors to make up excuses, but at least Harry could retain his honour if he knew he'd actually done nothing wrong.

Reluctantly Harry pushed off the wall, picking his bag up as he made his way into the classroom.

He'd barely stepped through the doorway when Riddle's hand slammed into the frame, narrowly missing Harry's head and trapping him right up against Riddle. Harry had to look up to see into Riddle's eyes, truly appreciating for the first time just how tall Riddle was.

"I know you have, shall we say, an attitude problem," Riddle said sharply, his voice cutting through Harry like a hot knife slicing through ice. "However, I want you to be aware that I am not your enemy, Harry. Unlike Headmaster Lestrange, I see potential and power in you, but it is your prerogative to accept my support rather than writing me off as yet another authority figure you hate."

"I can do well with magic," Harry agreed, heart thumping heavily in his chest though he refused to tear his gaze from Riddle's. "But I believe in Light magic, not Dark. I refused to torture other students for Travers, and I'm not going to do it for you, either."

Riddle's lips curled in amusement, and his hand moved back from the doorframe, allowing Harry to enter the classroom.

Harry pushed past him briskly, his arm brushing Riddle's firm, warm body as he went. He slammed his bag down on a desk at the back of the classroom, the force of his action spilling quills and inkwells across the tabletop.

"Shit," Harry muttered lowly as he reached for his wand to clean up the spilled ink, but his fingers had only just closed around the wood when the black stain on his desk vanished.

Harry glanced up to find Riddle with his wand in hand, tilting his head curiously as he looked down at Harry.

"You're mistaken about Dark magic, I hope you're aware," Riddle murmured softly, turning his back and retreating to his own desk. "It can be used for torture and suffering, yes, but it can also be used for everyday spells such as simple cleaning charms. In fact, Dark magic is so efficient that the Ministry centuries ago feared its power and banned it, spreading propaganda about its usage."

"Oh?" Harry argued. "Forgive me, Professor Riddle, but I don't remember Travers teaching us how to tie our shoelaces with Dark magic. What he did teach us was how to split someone open from neck to belly, and how to force someone's mind to be confronted with hallucinations of their biggest fear."

Harry knew it was incredibly foolish of him to argue with a professor, but the words were spilling from his lips regardless if Harry thought it was a good idea to say or not. He braced himself for a harsh reprimand, but rather than snarling, Riddle's lips simply turned up into a bemused smirk.

"My, the Headmaster was certainly not understating your attitude." Riddle beckoned Harry towards him with two of his fingers. "Move to the desk at the front; I think it might be best that I keep a close watch over you."

"But I-" Harry began to argue, but it seemed that Riddle's patience had finally expired.

"I told you that I'm not your enemy," Riddle snapped. "But if you turn me into one then I will have no choice but to indulge your wishes, and trust me when I say that I am not somebody you want as your enemy. Now do as you're told, Harry, and move to the front desk."

Harry scowled, but silently obeyed Riddle's command, mostly pissed off and—rather shamefully—a tiny bit aroused. He couldn't help it; he was an eighteen-year-old bisexual boy faced with an exceptionally attractive man who spoke with a charmingly smooth voice.

"There's a good boy," Riddle purred, and Harry felt his heart flutter—along with another, more prominent part of his body. "Don't disappoint me, Harry; as long as you follow my wishes, I believe we can make a great wizard out of you."

* * *

After classes had finished for the day Harry found himself heading to library. He wasn't especially studious, but he had nothing else to do and at least focusing on his school books would keep his mind off the loneliness which was already starting to eat away at him.

The current seventh years were a lot more compliant than the year group that Harry had originally been a part of. He and Seamus, along with Susan Bones, Sue Li, and Terry Boot, had all been more outspoken about the unfair treatment which the half-blood students suffered. Now, however, Harry was not just seen as the boy who'd managed to curse himself with some Dark object, but also the boy who made trouble for himself by arguing with professors, and it would be a wonder if he actually managed to make any friends. Most of the half-bloods would probably be too afraid of getting punished simply through association with him.

Harry had been reading—or rather staring blankly at his book—for what felt like very little time at all when he felt somebody sit in the chair opposite him. He glanced up, unsure if he was expecting a curious kid or a pureblood out to cause trouble. It ended up being neither.

It was a petite girl with dirty-blonde hair and large, icy blue eyes which were rather striking against the pallid tone of her skin. Harry vaguely knew her as a pureblood named Luna, but he'd never spoken to her, and often got the impression that nobody else did either.

"Hello," Luna said, smiling as she reached into her bag and placed several strands of brightly coloured yarn on the table. "You're Harry; I'm Luna."

"Er, hi," Harry replied, his book quickly forgotten as he watched Luna effortlessly begin to twist the strands of yarn together.

"I hope I'm not intruding in your moping," Luna murmured seriously. "But I thought you looked lonely and might be pleased for some company. I often find myself alone with my thoughts, and though it sometimes means I'm able to come up with wonderful ideas, other times it can be dreadfully sad. What's your favourite colour?"

"Uh, silver," Harry answered, stomach twisting as his mind flew to thoughts of the diadem and, for some horrific reason, the silver-tongued Professor Riddle. "Er, you're welcome to join me, if you like, but I didn't think you were supposed to associate with half-bloods if you could avoid it."

"Oh, I don't believe we're different at all," Luna stated confidently, fingers working a piece of silver yarn. "What is blood purity when we're all magical regardless?"

Harry smiled despite himself. Luna was certainly peculiar, to put it lightly, but she had a character about her which Harry found rather endearing.

"Try telling that to the Death Eaters," Harry muttered darkly, shaking his head. Luna laughed, covering her mouth with her hand before she returned her attention to her yarn project. "What are you making?"

"Who, me?" Luna asked, as though she wasn't the only one with him. "It's a piece of jewellery that the Muggles call a Friendship Bracelet; see, I've nearly finished." She held it up to demonstrate. "I had to guess the size of your wrist, but I think it will fit you nicely."

Harry's heart jumped hopefully in his chest. "You made a friendship bracelet for me?"

Luna nodded. "Oh, yes. I have a feeling that you and I are destined to be very good friends."

* * *

Harry could feel somebody following him.

He didn't turn around, and simply picked up his pace as he returned to his dorm room. He had stayed at the library too long, and darkness had already fallen outside meaning the only light in the corridors came from measly scones on the walls.

Harry wasn't much in the mood for a fight, and he hoped that as long as he didn't bite, the person or persons following him would lose interest and they could go their separate ways. Unfortunately, luck was not on Harry's side.

"Oi, Potter!" a voice shouted out, snarling.

It was a youthful voice, meaning a student rather than a professor, but while professors were far more sadistic and technically skilled, students tended to be more impulsive and lacking in restraint.

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly, because if somebody was going to attack him he'd rather they had to look in his eyes than giving them a defenceless target of a retreating back. He found himself facing Yancy Rowle and Garrett Avery, pureblood seventh-years who each had an uncle who served as two of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters.

"Is there a problem?" Harry ground out, scowling. "I'd like to be back in my dorm before curfew."

Garrett smiled nastily. "Yes, wouldn't do someone like you any good to be caught out of bed after hours. Luckily we don't have that problem."

"We've come to give you a warning, Potter," Yancy spat. "I don't know how Malfoy and Nott ran things, but they're not in charge any more; we are. And you-" Yancy jabbed his fingers into Harry's shoulder-"you filthy little halfie, are going to show us respect."

Harry rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, and instantly two sets of wands were drawn on him.

"I told you to show respect!" Yancy hissed. "Looks like we'll have to teach you some manners."

Though, logically, Harry knew the smart thing to do was run, he couldn't bring himself to flee like a coward. Damning the consequences he drew his own wand, his split second of hesitation enough to give the other two the advantage.

He hissed as a charm hit his face, slicing into his cheek with a sharp sting of pain. Warm blood dripped from the wound, the tang of copper hitting his tongue.

"Expelliarmus," Harry cast, reaching out to catch Yancy's wand only to have his arm slashed with the same spell as before by Garrett. Harry pulled his arm back to his body with a hiss of pain, Yancy's wand clattering to the floor.

"You dare try to steal my wand?!" Yancy screamed, scrambling for it on the ground. "You'll pay for that, halfie. You-"

"What," a cold, smooth voice uttered darkly behind Harry, "is going on here?"

Harry froze; Riddle's voice was distinct enough, but even without seeing him Harry could somehow sense Riddle's power.

Riddle stepped into view, tall and handsome as ever, and Yancy and Garrett grinned wickedly.

"Potter attacked us, Sir," Garrett said quickly. "We were trying to teach him a lesson."

Harry didn't bother to argue, because no teacher would defend a half-blood over a pureblood, even if they knew for a fact that the pureblood was lying.

"Oh?" Riddle drawled. "Be that as it may, you are all out of bed after hours."

The grins on Yancy and Garrett's faces vanished at once, their mouths falling open in horror.

"But-" they both began to argue, but Riddle held up a hand to silence them.

"Rules are rules, and as children you are to respect your betters," Riddle hissed. "You may be at the top of the school hierarchy, but in the real world you're nothing and so you'll do as I say. Now get out of my sight."

Harry could have laughed at the mortified expressions on Yancy and Garrett's faces, if only he didn't know worse would be coming for him. Yancy and Garrett were aware of that too, because despite their own shock they each sent him a nasty smirk as they barged past him.

"Come with me, Harry," Riddle ordered, setting off at a brisk pace without looking back to see if Harry was following.

Harry sighed, resigning himself to his fate as he stepped after Riddle.

* * *

Riddle eventually led Harry to a room in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Harry had only ever been to the actual dungeons once before, when he was fifteen and had spat at Headmaster Lestrange's feet for Crucio-ing a half-blood first-year who'd done nothing wrong but ask a pureblood to please move out of her way.

Harry had been strung up from the ceiling with his wrists in shackles for an entire day while Rabastan struck him over and over with a variety of floggers and canes.

Riddle finally glanced back at him, having been silent the entire walk, and simply inclined his head before he turned forwards once more and opened the door.

Harry followed him into the room, blood turning to ice in his veins. Rather than stepping into a dungeon like he had expected, Riddle had led Harry to his private quarters, decorated in shades of dark green and black. Harry's eyes landed on the four-poster bed and his knees turned to jelly, nausea bubbling in his stomach.

He'd heard rumours over the years, of course, that some of the professors took students to bed once they reached seventh-year, but he'd desperately, desperately hoped that even the Death Eaters wouldn't be so cruel as to-

"I'm not going to force you into my bed." Riddle's voice cut through Harry's horrifying thoughts. "Really, Harry, is that the type of person you take me for? Nothing more than a filthy, rabid rapist?"

Harry shrugged, feeling starting to return to his previously frozen body.

"I don't know you at all," Harry admitted. "How can I know what type of person you are? But I am here so you can punish me, aren't I?"

To Harry's surprise, Riddle shook his head, smirking.

"Only with a safeword," Riddle quipped, and Harry's eyes widened, not quite sure he hadn't just imagined it. "Actually, I don't believe in harming the undeserving. You may be a half-blood but you're still graced with magic and it's a waste to spill such precious blood."

Riddle reached out his hand, brushing a finger against the cut on Harry's cheek. Harry squirmed at the pressure and Riddle pulled back, looking down curiously at his blood-stained fingertip.

"Sit down," Riddle commanded, gesturing to the edge of his bed.

Harry hesitated for just a moment, but despite the mystery to Riddle's character, his words about not being a rapist had sounded sincere. He obeyed the order, and Riddle smiled down at him.

"Good boy," Riddle purred, and Harry's stomach twisted pleasantly.

Riddle conjured a wet cloth and began dabbing gently at Harry's face.

Harry held his breath, never having had a teacher heal his wounds before—usually they were the ones causing them. Riddle was being considerate, too; not pressing down too hard, and using his fingers to gently turn Harry's face where he needed to.

"How did you know I didn't deserve to be hurt?" Harry asked curiously as Riddle turned his attention to the wound on Harry's arm. "Garrett told you I started the fight."

"Avery and Rowle are liars," Riddle snapped sharply. "And they're also fools if they haven't realised there are more eyes on the students than just the ones they can see. Besides, I have the impression that your problem lies with authority figures rather than other teenagers."

"I don't have a problem with authority figures," Harry argued. "I just don't believe that being in a position of authority means you're entitled to respect; you have to earn that."

"And you've yet to find a professor you've considered to have earned your respect?" Riddle enquired, lips quirking. "Oh, I understand where you're coming from; you're a half-blood who only sees your own oppression rather than the bigger picture, and that's perfectly natural at your age."

"Are you suggesting I'll somehow see the value in the Dark Lord's violent regime as I get older?" Harry raised a brow.

"Perhaps not," Riddle agreed. "However you may learn the skills to pretend you do, which will certainly make life far easier for you. Things don't have to be as difficult as you make them; half-bloods can lead pleasant lives as long as they respect the Dark Lord's ruling."

Harry tilted his head, looking up at Riddle with a new-found intrigue. The way Riddle was talking almost bordered on treason, or encouraging treason at the very least. Harry had assumed Riddle was a Death Eater, but perhaps he wasn't; he glanced towards Riddle's arm, but the black fabric of his shirt hid the skin where the Dark Mark would be.

"Do you play chess, Harry?" Riddle asked suddenly.

Harry's eyes snapped back to Riddle, finding Riddle's odd-coloured eyes fixed on him intently. "Chess? I, uh, a little bit. I know how to play, I guess."

"Excellent," Riddle said, flashing his perfect teeth in a dazzling smile. "I'd like you to come here every evening after dinner and we'll play together. Chess is a game of patience, logic, and strategy, and these are all skills which you could do with learning. If you refuse, I'll simply make it your punishment for fighting pureblood students."

Harry found himself smiling somehow. "I won't refuse."

Riddle was too intriguing to Harry for him to turn down the opportunity to spend more time with him. Riddle was full of contradictions; cruel but kind, powerful but gentle. He was also the only professor who'd ever treated Harry like a real person and not just as a half-blood nuisance, and more than that, there was just simply something about Riddle that drew Harry to him, like a moth to flame, or a parched man to water.

The question was, would Riddle burn Harry or save him?


End file.
